


Fragments

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (now with family bonding - starting with chapter 9), Blood and Gore, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 01:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air. — Franz KafkaUndertaker and Claudia, through the years. (Because once, he was more than just the silver-haired mortician and the woman he loved had a name—a face—and together, they are a beautifully impossible might-have-been.)





	1. Chapter 1

“I’d hate to kill a pretty girl like you.” His expression was full of unhinged mockery though his eyes did gleam with a hint of regret.

Why did beauty have to be so vicious?  

She was unperturbed, even whilst lying on her back, the jagged cut on her lower left thigh continuing to gush blood. “Funny.” She chuckled, full chest heaving as she took in a deep, needed breath. It was such a pretty sight.

He smirked. “How so?”

“I’m not exactly giving you that option.” In one sweeping motion, she managed to propel herself up and before he could even laugh, the girl landed one breathtakingly injurious kick to his chest before vanishing, cobalt hair loose as she disappeared into the night. 

He coughed, smile widening.  _Oh-ho, he was_ _ **right.**  _(Above him, the pale moon gleamed silver.) _She **was**  fun._


	2. Chapter 2

“To be quite honest, you don’t strike me as the… _hostile executioner_ type, love.” Undertaker mused, perched carelessly on a ten story windowsill, looking down at his beautiful sapphire victim.

Or was she a victim? It was so difficult to tell these days—the  _girl_ (or  _Lady Phantomhive_ as she insisted on being called) presented  _such_ a curious little paradox.

“I suppose I might not,” the young lady called back, meringue pale and beautiful, “but you hardly know me—I could be utterly insane. Projecting illusions of grandeur behind a broken psyche.”  

“Mmh?” The Undertaker chuckled, leaning forward a bit. “I  _doubt it_.” His voice was low—not precisely menacing but there was a lilt of danger lurking beneath the soothing current of his voice. “And I don’t intend on discovering your whole life story in a night, countess—you’re much too interesting for a mere soliloquy.” He broke the word into three distinct syllables and watched with veiled delight as she frowned at the careless punctuation of his vocabulary. “After all, I wouldn’t want to  _bore_ you with causation and explanation.” He went on, tilting his body so he rested at a precarious angle, ready to fall at any moment.

She smiled. “How do you know you haven’t bored me already?”

 _Ah. He was_ hoping  _she might ask_ ** _that._**

“Because you’re still here countess,” he grinned gleefully, watching as her expression took on a rather amused look.

“ _That,_ ” she crossed her arms, “was a  _terrible_ riposte.”

“Oh? You’re not charmed by my verbal eloquence?”

“It’s hardly eloquent when one can predict what you’re about to say an hour in advance.”

“Ah! How you  _wound_ me, dear countess—“

“And you’ve exhausted my interest, dear Undertaker.”

 _Oh-ho!_ The  _audacity!_ Such a tiny little thing in her silks and frills, taunting  _him?_ Oh, this was just about the  _funniest_ thing he’s heard all  _year!_

He couldn’t help it, the laugher bubbled up, escaping his lips as he leaned forward, shoulders shaking as he laughed, laughed, laughed. From below, the Undertaker heard pretty Claudia Phantomhive’s sharp intake of breath (oh my, did the lovely little thing  _care_ for him?) as his wild movements—combined with the physics of gravity— caused him to plummet from the window ledge. Oh, the Undertaker laughed as fell down, he was going to have to  _keep_ her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undertaker. Claudia. Modern AU

“I killed my first man when I was…” he trailed off, looking almost confused for half a second—that half a second it takes to distinguish between memory and fantasy.

He wanted so much to believe in the fantasy, the abandonment of chaos and war.

Eventually, he shrugged and cast her a rueful, roguish smile that was all at once charming and deceitful. “To tell you the truth darling, I can’t remember.”

“Then he obviously wasn’t important enough to be remembered.”

“Now _that’s_ a prideful little thing to say.” His smile widened, mirth returning to his dark eyes. “He could’ve been the mayor of New York City.”

“Except he wasn’t.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “You’d never be so boring as to kill a politician. How cliche can you get? You’d kill someone worth remembering. Maybe a school bus driver.”

“ _That_ hardly seems memorable.”

“You forget, bus drivers are responsible for the safe delivery of children. And what’s crueler than killing a child? Leaving him or her alone, confused, and a witness to murder.” She adjusted her bracelet. “Did you shoot him point blank while the bus was in motion or did you get a sniper to do it?”

“Now you’re just being cynical.” 

“Ruthlessly.” She agreed, half-smile on her lips.

He smiled in return, a sharp, wolfish smile that unveiled his pointed canines and unleashed a sort of truthfulness into the air.

You could always count on a psychopath to be honest with his victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I headcanon Claudia and Undertaker as assassins here, that's why they're being so terribly morbid. 
> 
> Reviews welcome :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Undertaker and Claudia. A most violent first encounter.

“If you must know, I don’t enjoy destroying beautiful things.” He smiles up at her, a thin film of crimson darkening his silver hair.

She laughs. “More of a necessity isn’t it?”

He hums in agreement.

“I’d like to make an exception for you but…I don’t want to.” And he slashed into her chest anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some chapters will be shorter (or longer) than others but I'll make an effort to update this fic daily :)


	5. Chapter 5

_Of evils, choose the least._

— **Cicero**

 

* * *

 

It’s a crying, wretched shame that she’ll never fit in one of his custom hand-built coffins but then again, she won’t be recognizable by the time they’re done with her. How sad it is that the pretty countess should have stumbled into such a trap the Undertaker mourns with half-hearted grace. He is gripping rough stone and watching as the countess dances between the three men as they take turns beating her bloody. She’s already killed one of their comrades and injured the fat one with the bald head to the point where his punches don’t mean a thing.

Briefly, he wonders why she hasn’t gunned them down but her nimble footwork and sharp, shrewd looks catch the Undertaker’s eye and he manages to muffle a few indiscreet giggles.

“What the fucking hell was that?” One man asks, dropping his bruised fist. “You hear that Vonnie? Is that a copper?”

“Don’t be a dumb-fuck, Rudy, you know there ain’t no copper who gon’ come down to these docks.” The fat man answers with a moan. “Vicious bitch.” He mutters and backhands the countess. She feigns a stumble and seems a little annoyed by how he’s marred her cheek with a bit of his own blood but continues the charade.

“Hey, we ain’t done with you yet.” Rudy grabs Lady Claudia Phantomhive right as the bell tolls, signaling midnight, mystery, and beautiful, precious broken things.

The Undertaker amuses himself with a strand of tattered ribbon that he finds discarded on the rooftop ground. Distantly, he hears the squelching evisceration of blade gutting flesh and knows that entrails will soon follow. Those glossy pink organs that will spill from their stomachs; the countess will no doubt step on them as she pirouettes from one body to the next, disarming burly armed men, screams caught in their mortal throats.

She is not cruel but he senses a bit of a playful streak in his countess—a mischievousness often mistaken for sadism. 

From up above he can see how the fat man goes down crying, how ‘Vonnie’ has been strangled with his own belt, and how the third man has been forced to his knees, one arm broken and the other cuffed the dock’s metal railing.

“What the fuck you want from me you fucking bitch?” The man all but screams, desperately tugging at the police cuff that is now slicing through the flesh and bone of his left hand. “You a copper? You a fucking copper—?”

“No,” she sighs, sounding more annoyed than anything, “I _told_ you—I just wanted directions to the old Morton place but you three had to get frisky didn’t you?”

He spews out a list of vile profanities that the Undertaker does not quite like, particularly when he begins to leer at the countess’s exposed thigh and torn blouse.

“They’ll cut you open you fucking cunt,” the man hisses, all fire and brimstone and—

The Undertaker doesn’t find it quite as funny as he should have.

It is not particularly difficult to vault from his position on the rooftop to the ground below.

“What the fuck was that?!” The man cries when the Undertaker lands with an indelicate thump, boots hitting the ground and ribbon in hand. “Who the fuck are you? You brought _reinforcements_ you fucking _bitch_ —“

“I didn’t bring anything of the sort.” She spits back, grabbing the man’s dirtied oil cloth and shoving it into his mouth. “Now keep quiet for half a minute why don’t you?” The countess pats his bloodied cheek and gives a cheerful, jaunty wave to the Undertaker as he approaches. “Fine night for a walk isn’t it?” She smiles.

The evening breeze brushes strands of silvery hair from his face, allowing electric green eyes to appear. “Mmh,” he chuckles lowly, walking towards both countess and captive with a curious expression that’s more unsettling than dangerous, “I’ve been _watching,_ ” he begins, reaching out one sleeve covered hand to touch the open wound on Lady Phantomhive’s pale cheek. “I don’t think you’ll get much out of him love.”

“Don’t you?” She sounds amused, one hand on her hip and the other reaching for her pistol.

He gestures to himself with dramatic elegance. “ _I,_ ” he emphasizes, “might provide better company.” The Undertaker’s lips twist into a wide, toothy smile.

“But can you provide me with what I want?”

“Aye, love. I think I can satisfy.” He leans down suddenly, face inches from hers. Strands of silver hair pool about her shoulders and he can smell the scent of magnolias, blood, and saltwater on her skin. “What say you, countess?” He murmurs, low and deep, lips inches from hers. “Will I do?”

She gazes at him, the dark fringe of her lashes almost brushing against his chin. He’s taller—much taller—than she but it is he who has his shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on hers and a strange desire to press one fingertip against the flushed rosiness of her full mouth. He imagines the taste of peach blossoms and salt from her previous exertion, how even now her chest heaves and the Undertaker hides a chuckle, quip ready when he is suddenly rendered still as stone.

One delicate, dainty hand has come to press against his lips and the sapphire in the countess’s gaze has become blue fire.

“Yes,” she breathes out, thumb tracing his lower lip, “you’ll do.”

 

(They dump the nameless, foulmouthed third man into the dock waters. He’ll terrify a few merchants but this is a cleanup even Scotland Yard should be able to manage.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ahh I'm sorry this update took so long but I haven't forgotten about this fic, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: 1950s. Watchdog Claudia Phantomhive is given orders to eliminate the underground terrorist known only as The Undertaker.

She pierces something sharp into the side of his abdomen, puncturing flesh and muscle and just barely missing his last rib bone. A light chuckle escapes his lips as she presses the device further into him, almost willing it to stick even as he collapses on top of her.

“Thought you’d aim for an artery, love.” Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth as he rests his chin on her shoulder, perfectly content to stain her white summer blouse and long coils of cobalt colored hair.

“Well,” she licks her lips, “I can’t have you dying on me, can I?”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. She’s garnered his interest. “You’re feeling awfully benevolent tonight, countess.” One hand comes to press against the side of her head. How easy it’d be, he muses lightly, to slam her pretty little skull against the red brick of the alleyway. To leave her discombobulated and silent, lips parted with no breath to speak of.

He nudges her shoulder with his free hand. Dirt and grit stain her bare shoulder but she says nothing for a solemn, blue moment. “You mean too much to me. I can’t have you dying here. In an alleyway.”

“Well all this _could_ have been avoided if you'd only controlled that blade right there.” There’s a hint of playful indignation in his voice even as the blood continues to gush, warm and sticky across the countess’s hand, staining the Undertaker’s clothes and dying her fine crescent nails a marvelous shade of vermillion.

He sighs, breath cool against her ear as he feels her shiver. “You’ve got an _awful_ temper, love.”

“And who’s fault is that?” She spits back, sounding more desperate than furious. “I _told_ you—“

“Can’t fight for a cause I don’t believe in love.” He presses a kiss against her pale throat, relishing how her pulse thrums frantically beneath the ivory silk of her flushed skin. She says nothing and the Undertaker drops another kiss against her, enjoying how still she’s become, how silent and unsure in all her abstract glory—“I’ll kiss you if you want me to.” He decides and she cries, a half-choked hysterical scream that is swallowed by the inky blackness of the night. 

“You damned, impossible, _stubborn_ wretched man—!” She buries her face in his silvery hair, teeth gnashing at her freshly painted mouth. “ _Why?_ Why couldn’t you have chosen life?” She hisses, embittered and hurt and wanting nothing more than to drive her knife into his still beating heart. 

He chuckles. “Haven’t you been listening?” He chides lightly. “I’m…uniquely unfit for subservience and this whole affair?” (He sneers at that word and it’s the most derisive she’s ever heard him sound.) “I’m not… _fond_ of it.”

She dries her eyes on the collar of his mortician’s disguise. “Most men would have said something spectacularly pathetic—and saccharine as well. Some cliched, awful line ripped straight from a Hallmark card.”

“Oh?” He smothers a laugh. “What’d that line be, love?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she sniffs, “you’ve never said any.”

“Ah,” one hand comes to stroke at her hair, long black nails lightly scratching her scalp as if he’d forgotten the nine inch knife embedded in his left side. “Apologies for the abnormalities but it’s like I said. I’m not used to being loved. I simply wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“And I didn’t believe you.”

“ _Mmh._ ” 

She presses herself closer to him. “You’re doing a right terrible job of proving me wrong.” 

“Never set out to do anything of the sort.” He returns and pokes the back of her neck, giggling like a child when Claudia stomps on his foot. “You’re really trying to end my life this time, aren’t you?” His voice is light—convivial—as they continue to stand there, two shadowed bodies melding into one as the blood continues to spill.

And suddenly all the cynical humor in the world can’t erase what she’s about to do. 

“Yes,” her voice is low, a half-whispered syllable that the Undertaker takes with remarkable ease. Even now, Claudia fumes, he's holding her as if he might be in love with her, the heartless  _thief—_

“Spare me a glance?” He inquires, fingertips numb with cold as she supports more and more of his weight. “Come now—be a gracious lady and dazzle me with a passing glance! Besides," he lowers his voice, conspiracy rife in his too-mischievous tone, "paupers aren’t _that_  bad to look at—we might even be...dare I say… _interesting._ Hm? How’s about it love? _One_ glance?” He teases and cajoles, perfectly content with the reality of it all as his crimson hand comes to tangle itself in her hair.  

She leans back.

Their faces are half an inch apart and all he can see, all he can truly take in, is _sapphire._ The bluest sapphire in all the world.

“Greedy.” He murmurs with startling coherence. She frowns, confused and tired in his frozen arms. “Greedy,” he repeats, one nail coming to catch a falling teardrop. “Sapphires _and_ diamonds—won’t be long before you go about seeking emeralds too, eh love? What a solicitous countess you are!”

Her grip on the blade tightens. “And what a vile, wonderful contradiction you are.” 

He chuckles, eyes briefly flickering upward to take in the starry skies and apple moon. “Miss me?” The Undertaker prods, “at least—for a while?”

“Hardly.” Her breath is hot against his cheek. "Do you suppose the sight of death can soften me up?"

"Oh wouldn't _that_ be a sight." He laughs, observing blueberries and cream and Countess Claudia Phantomhive. “Such a strange circumstance eh?” He steadies his breath, knowing that blood loss (of all things!) would be the void to take him. “Always supposed I’d die wretchedly but you’ve proved me wrong, haven’t you countess? Your arms…" the mortician sighs, content and beautiful in her arms, "well, they’re better than any gutter I could’ve imagined.”

Her jaw drops. “Why you—!” She glares down at him, ready to shout and scream and grab onto the last frayed threads of normalcy when he chokes out three names. Three beautiful, tremulous names that she decides to forgive him—just this once. 

_Just this once._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “I’m not used to being loved…” adapted line from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story ‘More Than Just A House’
> 
> A/N: Claudia here is a LOT sweeter than she usually is but I figured she might show a bit more genuine emotion considering it's her who's actually ending her lover's life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Undertaker provides his favorite countess with a bit of information at the Viscount Druitt's annual midwinter soiree.

The first member of the Evil Noblemen that he meets is a blonde, debauched New York multimillionaire by the name of Paul Anders. (That, of course, is not his real name but then again, why would a spiffy east coast scion want to share his true identity with a slew of drunken thieves?) His late father had amassed a fortune in artillery, all aspects of commercial and private finance, shipping, and land development in the New York Ilion area while his beloved mother married and remarried to her heart’s content, leaving all the nitty-gritty nail-biting tedium of day to day work to her eldest son and Paul’s older brother, Ephraim.

The pretty little countess with the rosebud mouth and fox-like stare partners them up on a simple reconnaissance assignment at the Viscount Druitt’s annual winter soiree and the Undertaker likes to think it’s her own personal punishment for him after he’d interrupted her last investigation by killing one witness with a frying pan.

Nevertheless, he’s been ordered to the shadows while _Paul_  takes center stage. A true, brash American with a peculiar accent and appalling taste in outerwear, Mr. Anders cajoles a few women to form a circle around him as the Undertaker takes a stroll through the grounds. 

They weren’t going to learn anything from the viscount that the Undertaker didn't already know but his countess was stubborn and the Undertaker had an eternity to waste.

“Thought I’d find you here.” The bushes rustle, disrupting the placid fountain and sending ripples to kiss the still water. “You’re quite the lone wolf tonight.”

The Undertaker grins, hands hidden beneath the sleeves of his mortician’s robes. “Well, well, well—aren’t we a naughty noble tonight? Slinking around the dark with a man not of your own blood. Tsk, tsk,” he chides, “you’ve turned pretense upside down, haven’t you?”

She emerges from the hidden dark, a dress of black tulle and satin decorated with diamond drops covering her slim figure. “Oh I’ve just decided to drop in. Drink a flute or two of champagne and see if you’d still be here by the end of the evening.”

“Mmh does the pretty countess not… _trust me?_ ”

The corner of her lips quirk in an odd little half-smile. “Pretty?”

“Oh aye.” He confirms. “ _Open-casket_ pretty.” 

“Flattering.” She doesn’t smile but her voice is rich with suppressed laughter and the Undertaker takes this as another victory for the scorecards. “I’ll be sure to ban you from the funeral arrangements.”

A shout of laughter escapes his lips and he suddenly coils around her, closing the space between them with a snake-like motion that is more predatory than alluring. “Oh, you’ve got a _mouth_ on you, little countess.”

“And you’ve got two eyes for the plucking.” She smiles easily. “Tell me. What do you know?”

“About the viscount? As much as anyone else,” he begins, rubbing his clothed hands together, “colorful man with a funny little boy and a rather curious wife.”

“Who he exiled to a sanitarium some three years ago.” She interrupts, a slight furrow between her brows. “Are you simply going to reiterate what was in the London Times or do you have something truly worth troubling me with?”

“Temper, temper!” He scrunches down, shoulders hunched as electric green meets icy blue. “This is a bit of a sin but I won’t tell if you won’t,” he whispers conspiratorially, “well?”

She looks at him with a hint of disbelief and strange humor. “Oh I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Didn’t your fair mother drown at sea?”

“Precisely.”

The Undertaker looks at her, head tilted and wearing a tremendously inappropriate smile that has her wanting to shoot him right in the face. “ _Ohh_ you’re _good_ —!” He raises one hand and Claudia observes slim, pale fingers and long black fingernails. “Very well then,” he gestures around, “take a seat—anywhere, anywhere at all! Here,” he walks over to the fountain ledge, “countess?” 

She follows, six knives on her body and a Remington pistol tucked into her garter. “My dear Undertaker?”

“Ah, yes—the viscountess.” He puts one hand on his chin, half-ponderous but mainly just for show. “Funny lady, gave the best laughs really—could’ve made quite the career as a vaudeville star.”

“But?”

“Poor love,” he shakes his head, “heard voices every hour and wasn’t particularly fond of her husband—though she had quite a bit of love for her son. When the good lady began acting out a few days after the viscount’s impromptu meeting with two masked men in a waxed candle room…”

Her eyes harden. “The cult.”

“ _Precisely,_ ” he crows delightedly, “he took the poor girl and threw her right into that dreary old asylum. Never even sent a card.”

“A…card?” The countess gives him an odd look.

He shrugs, smile on his lips as he continues to watch her.

She returns to the matter at hand. “So the viscount _is_  involved with this whole affair—“

“Unsurprising, eh?”

She laughs lightly. “Quite. Though, I doubt he’s interested in the blood and gore of it. He’s always been a man with a particular fondness for grandeur.”

The Undertaker gives a hum of agreement, eyes flittering between the countess's face and her lithe, nimble fingers. Briefly he wonders how quickly she could have cut him through if he’d told a joke instead of the truth.

“Countess?”

She turns. “Oui monsieur?”

 _Oh, she’s feeling_ ** _playful_** _tonight._ With one pale hand he pushes back a curtain of silvery hair to reveal an elegant face that would not have looked out place carved into marble. His eyes follow her movements as she approaches to take hold of his open hand. “A waltz then?”

She purses her lips, eyes flitting inside to see Paul Anders chatting happily with a slew of forgettable women in atrociously colored ballgowns. “Very well,” she consents, taking his hand, “just one.”

“And countess?”

“Hm?”

“Did you hear about the man who jumped off a bridge in France? He was _in-Seine._ ”

“Undertaker?”

“Mmh?”

He never really hears the last part of her sentence. The next thing he knows he’s been roundhouse kicked right in the face and is lying half-conscious in the viscount’s fountain.

 _Ah,_ he grins, _least she didn’t gut me._

Progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Remington pistol: America’s oldest gun maker, founded in 1816 by Eliphalet Remington and based in Ilion, NY
> 
> \- “A…card?” — postcards were invented in 1870 by Hymen L. Lipman and weren’t produced until 1873; thus, at this point, Claudia has absolutely no idea what a postcard is
> 
> A/N: A fun, silly little interlude between Undertaker and Claudia :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claudia discusses a past engagement. 
> 
> The Undertaker is woefully amused.

“I thought I could love him. Really, truly love him.” She looked away at the black, echoing night, and sighed. “But when I got to know him I was disappointed, and when that picture of him shattered there was no recognizable image left.” 

“Didn’t match up to the lover of your dreams?” His rocking-horse cadence teased but there’s a sliver of genuine curiosity that touches Claudia in a strange, peculiar way.

“I can’t say,” she mused, “but I know the thought of him was wonderful. He smelled of English cigarettes and expensive cologne; his skin was pearlescent and covered with lovely velvet, as if he couldn’t bear the burden of his beauty. And his voice— _oh,_ he had a voice of a lover and I was ready to marry him then and there.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She smiled. “Didn’t you hear? The _thought_ of him was wonderful.”

“But his moneyed air couldn’t do much for reality, could it?” The window to her study is open and he is teetering on the painted ledge, a half-step away from willows, rain, and earth.

“Perhaps.” She sipped at her tea, now cold with two dissolved sugar cubes sweetening the black leaves. “I just knew that one day I’d end up screaming if we stayed together. He was far too perfect for someone like me.”

“Modesty— _tsk, tsk._ It doesn’t suit you, countess.” He said with a sly smile. 

“It’s true.” She touched the rim of her teacup, admiring the painted china and iris pattern. “If this life didn’t kill him then I would have.”

He arched a brow, hands clutching a ridiculously overstuffed throw pillow. “You were a macabre young bride weren't you?" 

She looked unimpressed “He would have exhausted me by year’s end." Claudia stated, not sounding the least bit sorry. "I only have so many smiles I can give before the whole charade crumbles. He was beautiful and wonderful and it made me sick after a while—like drinking too much spiced wine. His concern became a hinderance, his voice fell flat, and every look he gave me was an overwhelmingly saccharine affair.” She put down the saucer. “We wouldn’t have lasted six months.”

The Undertaker looked thoughtful for a moment, one black fingernail coming to tap on his chin. “Hmm…so the pretty countess needs more than just affection, does she…” they locked eyes and Claudia gestured for him to go on. He grinned. “Well, let’s not having you getting married too soon, eh? After all, we’ve just become friends.”

She laughed. “Friends? You and I? Undertaker, dearest, we’re hardly more than acquaintances.”

He hummed in agreement. “Perhaps—but in this world here, between heaven and hell, we don’t have much else do we?”

“No,” one hand brushed at the small bump where their child rested, “not yet." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “…and when that picture of him shattered there was no recognizable image at all” — quote writ by Arthur Miller to his soon-to-be ex-wife Marilyn Monroe 
> 
> \- “He smelled of English cigarettes and expensive cologne” — adapted line from Marguerite Duras’ novel ‘The Lover’


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-canon. 
> 
> Where Frances Phantomhive gets VERY annoyed with the Undertaker's long bangs and decides to take matters into her own hands.
> 
> Humor and family fluff galore.

Today is the day, Frances decides with the sort of conviction most war generals use in the eleventh hour of battle. But Frances Phantomhive is more than some common army commander—she is seven years old and armed with an entire bundle of silk hair ties, ready to take on what she has bluntly codenamed The Challenge.

With careful consideration she takes in the hour (five minutes to seven), her location (the Phantomhive playroom), and the relative emptiness of the lavish corridors (a good majority of the servants were either preparing supper or setting up the poker table for mummy’s Aristocrats) while Grandfather Tanaka was out collecting Vincent.

Frances smiles. _Perfect._

 

The Undertaker senses her presence before she even appears in the room. His body is so in-tune with the Phantomhive lot that he can’t _not_ recognize her, even when she’s approaching, silent as the grave. He applauds the athletic control little Frances Phantomhive has over her footsteps, the way her breathing is carefully regulated that any other human would be oblivious—

So he pretends not to hear, turning back to the lovely cobalt haired countess who has a half-smirk on her full mouth. Their eyes meet and Claudia nods. “Shall we begin?” She passes him a manila folder that he promptly drops onto the tea table and she rolls her eyes but has long since given up on trying to curb his informalities.

 _Now if only the same could be said for the daughter…_ he chuckles lightly. From the corner of his eye he sees Frances slipping into the parlor room so subtly that he wouldn’t have noticed had he not prepared himself for her appearance.

Claudia, too, seems fully aware of what’s occurring but takes it all in stride. Feigning concern over something or other, she excuses herself for a brief moment and that is when the little valkyrie strikes.

“Mr. Undertaker, sir!” She announces her presence boldly and without fanfare, materializing from behind velvet drapes with one hand on her hip and the other cradling a bundle of silk ribbons.

“Well, _gracious,_ ” he exaggerates, one sleeve-covered hand coming to press against his heart. “Little Frances Phantomhive scaling the halls without the countess knowing? _Tsk, tsk,_ ” he chides, “you’re becoming more and more like your brother by the _day._ ”

“I am not!” She begins, ready to do battle before remembering the purpose her visit.

He gives her a toothy smile, bending down slightly so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck up to look at him. “My, my—are we conceding already?” He asks with a slight of mockery but she refuses the bait.

“If you would,” she gestures to the open couch and even gives him a little curtsey.

He simply stares at her ( _ever the good, dear gentlelady—my, my!_ ) long, silver bangs covering his eyes.

When he refuses to move, she becomes bolder. The rambunctious, iron-willed spirit of Claudia Phantomhive blazes in her and for a moment the Undertaker is so terribly fond of the little jade-eyed girl that he forgets how he’s promised to leave her be.

“If you would.” She repeats again, this time with a little more force and a hint of steely resolve hardening her young face. _Just like the countess before a kill,_ he grins and decides to humor the child.

He sits down smack dab in the center of the couch and watches her mouth twist with annoyance. “Well?” He prompts, head tilted to the side as he scoots a little further back.

She looks down at the bundle of ribbons in her arms, puffs out her little chest, and before the Undertaker can blink she’s kicked off her shoes and hurled herself onto the same couch. “It isn’t proper for a member of the Aristocrats to go about looking so disheveled,” she lectures, standing up next to him with easy grace. Her sense of balance is impeccable, even on couch cushions—of this, the Undertaker isn’t the least bit surprised. “Could you face the Rembrandt please?” She asks politely and the Undertaker, fueled by curiosity and a lingering sense of indulgence, does as she says. 

“I didn’t know ladies climbed on couches barefoot.” He throws in, catching a glimpse of her pink cheeks and disapproving frown.

“I wouldn’t have had to resort to these measures if you’d only combed your hair back like I’d req— _asked._ ” She defends with a little huff.

But before the Undertaker can retort (or hide his not-so-quiet laughter), he feels unsure little hands coming to grasp at his hair. Her touch is gentle (and more than a little shy) as Frances takes strands of unkempt silvery hair into her petite palms.

“What’re you doing back there, lovey?” He begins to turn back around but is stopped by Frances (whose grip is surprisingly firm for a seven year old girl).

“I won’t do anything terrible,” she promises, “but would you please keep your eyes forward?” She looks Very Serious with her big jade eyes and childish features, trying to persuade a centuries old Reaper to sit still while she braids his hair.

The absurdity of this whole ordeal hits him all at once and the Undertaker begins to laugh—quietly at first, with one sleeve-covered hand coming to muffle his chortles but when Frances Phantomhive says something so peculiarly precious (“I’ve been practicing this on my all my dolls and sometimes mummy but Vincent lets me do it every night since I beat him in the arena and he lost the bet”) that he throws his head back and _laughs._

“Stop it!” She complains, trying to force him to look forward again but the Undertaker shakes in his seat, hands clutching his stomach as he pictures rows and rows of porcelain faced dolls being subjected to Frances Phantomhive’s braiding abilities followed by a good-humored Claudia—the _Queen’s Watchdog_ —and finally, the Undertaker envisions, a disgruntled Vincent Phantomhive sitting flat on his bottom as Frances clambers over him, grasping loose strands of dark hair while he bemoaned her supernatural victory.

“Mr. Undertaker!” Frances’s usually controlled voice teeters on the edge of childish abandon, “please _sit still!_ ” She tries again, leaning over his shoulder to direct his attention to a dusty old painting—

He grins.

With more force than necessary the Undertaker inclines back right as she’s leaning forward because, _really—_ it could be quite _fun_ to see little Frances Phantomhive lose her balance—

...Even if he makes sure her head won't hit the wooden frame of the couch. (Because he wants to have a laugh, not kill the Phantomhive heiress.) And _yes,_ he's using one hand to steady her shoulder so her arm won't be bruised by her fall forward but it's just common decency isn't it? Of course he's not a very  _decent_ person by nature but this one little exception is alright and  _gracious,_ she's a sneaky little thing when she looks back up at him with an annoyed, unacceptable pout that has him trying to stomp back that warm, forgotten feeling.

Frances blows back a few loose strands of silvery-gold hair and gives him a hard, emerald glare and  _honestly,_ her features are so _familiar_ , as familiar as his own face.

 

That is how the countess finds them some twenty minutes later.

Her sapphire eyes widen when she sees the Undertaker holding his daughter, Frances's busy little hands braiding waterfalls of silver hair and her usually closed mouth chattering happily about topics too numerous to comprehend. The Undertaker himself nods along with whatever she says, interjecting a sentence here and there and not looking the least bit bothered as the planes of his face are exposed, allowing Claudia to see the unearthly beauty he kept veiled to all the world.

A strange, choked feeling rises in her when Frances leans closer, the silvery-gold of her hair blending perfectly with that of the Undertaker’s. Father and daughter giggle to themselves before Frances notices her standing by the doorway.

“Mummy!” She cries, waving a hand for her to join them. “Come over mummy and see what I’ve done!” Frances is awfully proud of the various braids she’s twisted the Undertaker’s hair into but Claudia can only focus on the two of them, smiling beatifically, just as it should have been.

Just as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Inspired by an ask that midnight-in-town/Indochine received—I am an absolute sucker for Frances & Undertaker headcanons XD (please let us see more of this magnificent woman and her creepy but cool [possible] dad, Yana!)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know if this is love (and he's not presumptuous enough to think it is) but when she looks his way, he really can't take his eyes off her.

“Oh no, no, _no._ You’re much too fun to lose.” He says this in a rush, leaping from the factory rooftop to the ground below in one swift, smooth motion. The Undertaker slices her opponent’s neck wide open, allowing blood—red and terrible—to gush around his pretty countess. Claudia Phantomhive ducks, narrowly missing the dark crimson before she turns to see him looking down at her with a childishly playful grin.

There’s a deep, uneven cut on her shoulder but she ignores it, choosing to study the silver-haired enigma instead. “You aren’t scheduled to be here.”

“Am I not?”

“No.” She _clearly_ remembers him saying he’d be away in France. “So what are you doing here?”

“Mmmh… _protecting_ you.” He purrs, all falsehood and arsenic.

Her sapphire eyes darken to an unreadable midnight blue and she turns, giving a roundhouse kick to the half-dead assassin before pivoting to extend _him_ the same courtesy.

He catches her ankle and holds her there, eager excitement filtering across his face. “ _Oh,_ oh—I _like_ you.”

“No.” Her voice is even and sure. “You’d only be bored with me gone.”

“Bored? No, _no._ ” He shakes his head. “ _Less entertained_ are the words I’d used.”

“Ah, so am I a doll or a chess piece?”

He grins, thumb caressing her anklebone in a parody of tenderness. “Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?” He teases but she catches a glimpse—a fleeting, unsure glimpse—of soft affection in those glowing lime-green eyes. “So long as you keep being pretty, I’ll never be too far away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was written a while ago but I thought it was cute so here it is XD


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